Storm Surge
by bugsfic
Summary: The bus to Adelaide is caught in a storm and Jean and Lucien must spend the night in a hotel. What will happen?


Aussiegirl41 has my gratitude for Aussifing another one! And the enablers on tumblr are responsible for nagging me into trotting out this fine out trope.

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"'ere's the keys for you and your old man," barked the landlady, slapping two room keys with big brass fobs between the plates on the table. Jean thanked her but she was already pushing through the crowded dining room to pass out keys to other bus passengers.

The Adelaide bus had left Ballarat in sun, but the sky had soon filled with heavy, low clouds. Lucien and Jean had appreciated the cloak of darkness and had snuggled even closer on the seat. "Your arm will go to sleep," Jean had murmured, yet not wanting him to take its steady weight from her shoulders.

"It's alright," he replied, pressing another kiss to her temple and pulling her tighter to him.

The rain had come, a thundering beat on the bus roof and its rhythm had seemed to excite Lucien, his palm cupping her kneecap, and his thumb brushing under the hem of her skirt.

She gripped his wrist. "Lucien," she whispered. "Later."

His teeth flashed bright in the encroaching dark, but then thunder boomed, and she had felt his body tense.

"Storm brewing," she had said unnecessarily.

They had clung to each other for comfort across the miles as the bus went slower and slower. The rain washed down over the windows and water splashed up the sides off the tyres.

Finally, flashing lights ahead in the road made the driver ease to a halt. He stuck his head out the door and conferred with several dark figures in drizabones. Then he addressed the passengers.

"Sorry folks, they say the road is flooded out ahead." A gasp ran through the passengers. "We'll have to go back to Kaniva for the night until they can get it repaired. There's a pub where you can stay. Don't worry, the bus company will cough up for the cost."

Thus they'd ended up at the Commercial Hotel, all crowded into the small dining room, eating a hastily prepared dinner of small portions, a bowl of pumpkin soup followed by two lamb chops and half of a potato for each, while the rooms were being given a quick dusting. As it was, to give everyone a bed, camp stretchers were being added to a larger room for the single men's lodgings and one room for single ladies too.

"It'll be like being at the CWA overnight camp again," Jean had said when the sleeping arrangements were announced. But her grin faded when she saw Lucien's tense expression.

"It's been a long time since I was stationed with a group of men," was all he said when she asked if it anything was wrong. She smiled at him, but he only lifted the corner of his mouth in response.

Conversation played out, they huddled together at the table, ignoring the curious glances from Ballarat locals. As they had dined, she made a point of returning the gaze of acquaintances, to behave as though it were perfectly normal for Doctor Blake to rush along the footpath and flag down an intercity bus, then sit with his arm around his housekeeper. Goodness knows they'd weathered plenty of gossip before. What did it matter if there was more? A few dared to attempt chit-chat from nearby tables, but Lucien's imperious expression seemed to rebuff engagement. Jean was grateful for that, even knowing that once in the single ladies room, nosy Miss Lockhart from the sweets shop would start her interrogation.

In the end, Jean broke the silence. The bus driver, dripping rain off his coat, was dropping their bags by the dining room entrance. "You don't have any luggage," she suddenly realised.

"No."

She straightened in her chair. "Are you thinking that I'll come back to Ballarat with you?"

"I wasn't thinking much, to be honest." Now his smile was sincere and her heart flipped.

She gasped a laugh and dared to squeeze his hand. Several necks craned as they were watched.

He avoided her gaze while he said, "No, I'll come to Adelaide, if I may."

"I can't stop you. We're on the same bus."

He sighed, a painful sound. She knew that seemed as though she was putting up a wall, but she couldn't help herself.

She changed the topic. "I assume the killer was found. That's why you came."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Jock Clement killed Neville Franklin."

"That's terrible."

"Yes."

"Is there something more?"

"Jock had murdered my mother because he couldn't have her."

She wished that he hadn't told her that, now, in this crowd. Still, she grabbed his hand with both of hers and held on tight. "I'm so very sorry, Lucien."

"I'm glad to know the truth at last," he said but didn't seem satisfied. There was something more, obviously, but it could wait, she decided.

The publican clanged his bell to get everyone's attention. He announced, "The chemist's opened up for anyone who needs to buy some necessities."

The rumbling of the crowd rose. "I'd best head over there," Lucien said, "and get a toothbrush, razor, a pair of shorts if they've got them."

"Do you have enough money?" Jean reached for her handbag. Lucien had paid for the dinner already and he was never one to carry much cash.

He patted his wallet pocket. "As a matter of fact—"

Smiling, she brought at her change purse and gave him a fiver. "This should do?"

"Plenty."

He leaned over and placed a peck on her cheek easily, leaving a blush behind. More heads snapped around and a few folks gave them approving smiles. Not Miss Lockhart, Jean noted. Her bright red lips moued in disapproval.

That was how Jean came to be alone when the keys were distributed and she supposed that she was distracted by her jumbled emotions and thoughts.

Just as Lucien returned, everyone was moving either to the bar or to their rooms. Jean was suddenly shy.

"Care to join me for a sherry?" he asked. He was nervous too, gripping his paper sack tightly.

"I better get to bed," she said quickly.

"I'll carry your suitcase for you." He snatched up her bag before she could protest, but when they came to the foot of the stairs to the upper veranda, she stopped him.

"Best not," she said quietly, putting her hand to his chest. He looked questioningly. She quickly kissed his cheek, feeling the brush of his beard on her lower lip. Stepping back, she wiped the trace of lipstick from his skin. He stared at her in wonder. "Go get your drink," she urged him.

"Good night, Jean," he said gently, and slipped back into the darkness. She stood on the first step for a moment, watching him until he went through the door back into the pub. The rain had slackened for a few minutes, but when she got to the top of the stairs, it began in earnest again, beating on the tin roof. Checking her key fob in the dimness, she hurried along to her room. When she opened the door, it turned out that she was not sharing with other ladies, but had a small hotel room that smelled strongly of must. It had a sagging double bed with a lumpy covering, a bare wood floor with a very small rug and one narrow table next to the bed. She saw with great relief that there was a steaming jug of water on it. She felt done in and in need of a wash.

In the pub, Lucien ordered one shot of whisky and drank it quickly. Although the men from the bus were less obvious in their interest than the women, there was still a quiver in the air as they all looked at him out of the corner of their eyes. And now he'd have to spend the night stuck in a room with at half of dozen of them which would surely trigger upsetting memories of the sheds where the prisoners had slept. Rain coming in through leaks in the roof, the few stretchers reserved for the dying, snakes and rats coming every night, and always, the low moans, like the wind tonight, of men easing toward death.

Needing a smoke, he paid for his drink and went outside, turning up his jacket collar against the rain. The forbidden cigarette tasted wonderful and calmed his nerves. There was so much to say to Jean and yet he had no idea where to even start. All he knew was that he couldn't remain silent another day. But expressing all the tumultuous emotions would have to wait until they had some privacy. Ducking his head, he hurried to the dunny to take care of that business before going to the bathroom.

With his few toiletries and a fresh pair of shorts in the paper sack from the chemist's as his only luggage, he decided to find his bed, despite not being tired in the least. With no hat or overcoat, he was drenched through while hurrying to the stairs. He checked his key tag for the room, then went along, squinting at the numbers on the doors.

Outside the door, he took a deep breath. He could do this—a boom of thunder shook the building and the sky lit up with a bolt of lightning. Clenching his jaw, he stabbed the key into the lock and pushed into the room.

Jean whirled to face him, clutching her pyjama top to her bare chest. "Lucien!"

He quickly turned away, staring at the wall while slamming shut the door. "I'm so sorry!"

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

He held up his key while still focused on the hideous wallpaper. "This is my room."

She grabbed up her key from the table and checked it. "It's my room too."

"There must be some mistake." Lucien reached for the doorknob. "I'll get this straightened out."

"Wait." Jean wiggled into her top. "The driver gave the publican's wife a list of the passengers with the married couples for the double rooms. He must have marked us down as married. She even called you old man when she gave me the keys. I wasn't pay attention..." she trailed off.

"I suppose the driver assumed we were married when I stopped the bus," Lucien mused. He peeked over his shoulder and dared to turn around when he saw that she was decent. "I guess that I'll get along to the men's quarters then."

"No!" Jean stepped to his side and lowered her voice. "You can't."

"Is something wrong?"

"It's just so late," she said lamely. "I'm sure everyone has gone to bed."

"I can knock on the door. They'll shift over for one more, I'm sure."

"Lucien, you don't want to go into that room, do you?"

His eyes went blank in a way which always distressed her. "It'll be fine."

"We're adults, Lucien. We live in close quarters at ho—at your house. Surely we can share a room for one night."

He lifted one shoulder and his eyes darted around the small room. She reached out to tug him over, and discovered his jacket was wet. "You're soaked!" she exclaimed. "Let's get you out of these wet things."

Ignoring his grumbling protests, she stripped his jacket, waistcoat and shirt off, leaving him in his singlet. The towel was much too small for the expanse of broad shoulders and thick arms that she discovered under his heavy suit. Suddenly light-headed, she dabbed ineffectually at his chest before ruffling his hair dry with it. "That's better!" she said with false brightness.

He was shaking. "You're cold," she said and grabbed up the bedspread to wrap around him. "Better?"

"Better," he said.

She found her dressing gown in her case and put it on. She noticed the cake tin under her undergarments. "I'm still hungry. Are you?"

"What are you offering?"

Somehow his question made her eyes shift. "Cake," she said a bit too loudly. "My poppyseed sponge."

"That's for your family though," he said but she could see the need in his gaze.

"I can bake another when I get to Adelaide." She sat beside him on the bed and popped open the tin. "And I promise it's not poisoned."

He had the grace to laugh and she found herself staring at the dimple in his cheek. She felt as though she now had permission to simply gaze at him, and it was a strangely overwhelming sensation.

His fingers crept into the tin. "Just a bite."

She broke off a corner of the sponge. "Yes, just a bite."

When they finished the cake, guiltily licking their fingers clean, she put the tin aside. "Well..."

"Well..." He stood. "I should get to the men's quarters, really." He felt his jacket hanging on the bed of the bed. Still wet.

"I'm sure all the beds are full, though. You'll be on the floor."

"I've slept on floors before." His eyes had that blankness again.

"So you might as well sleep on this floor." She pulled one of the pillows off the bed. "Keep the cover too. I've got my gown and this blanket." She patted the thin, worn blanket on the bed.

"I'll be fine," he mumbled, looking everywhere but at the bed.

"You best get out of those wet trousers too," she said rather breathlessly. He'd already slipped his shoes and socks off at some point and his bare pale feet were making her heart do that odd flipping again. Had she ever seen his feet bare before? She thought not. She would have remembered.

Keeping the cover awkwardly wrapped around him like some great pink knobbly toga, he slipped out of his trousers and handed them to her. She shook them out and hung them on the end of the bed with his other garments. Hopefully they'd be dry in the morning.

She quickly slid under the sheet and blanket. "There's water if you need to brush your teeth," she offered.

"I've already washed up," he said, while looking randomly around the room again.

He was making her very nervous. She rolled over, her back to him. "Goodnight then."

"Goodnight." He turned off the room light, plunging them into darkness. Then the thunder boomed and the lightning lit the room and she saw his silhouette shudder. "Lucien," she whispered, but he just said, "Goodnight," again and laid on the floor.

Lucien tried to find a comfortable spot on the small rug. He lay flat on his back and aligned his spine with the crack in the floorboards. He had gone soft after all these years. And yet it felt like just yesterday when he would sleep on the rough, warped boards, as the tropical rains battered the rusted roof...At least the rats weren't here—something small and furry ran over his chest.

"Bloody hell!" he hissed.

He heard Jean flip over on the squeaky mattress. "What is it, Lucien?" came out of the darkness.

"Nothing. Just got a splinter in my leg," he lied.

She turned on the bedside light and started to get out of the bed. "Let me see—"

"No, don't put your feet on the floor!"

She snatched up her feet. "What is it?"

"I think the rain may be bringing on a mouse plague."

"Lucien!"

Just then another mouse darted across the room.

"You can't stay down there," she said definitely.

He put his hands behind his neck and stared that cracked plaster ceiling. "At least it's not a pit viper."

She pillowed her head on her arm and looked him. "Oh, Lucien—"

"Doug Ashby is dead."

"What?"

"When I went to confront Jock Clement, he had a gun. Doug was there too...There was a struggle between the two men..."

"He was a very brave man—"

"He took the bullet for me."

She didn't care about the mice. She was off the bed and down on the floor to clutch Lucien close. "You could have been killed." Just that morning, she'd thought that perhaps she'd not ever see him again, but by choice. He could have been taken from her permanently and she shook with terror.

"I suppose so." He wrapped his arms around her. "I didn't think about it at the time, but Jock wanted to kill someone. He's mad."

"Doug wouldn't let that happen. His wife is gone, his daughter...your mother—"

Lucien was gently stroking the fine hairs at Jean's temple. He said distantly, "The last thing Doug said was that he loved my mother. I'm wondering if he was trying to tell me that he's my father."

She turned her head to look at him but he continued to stare at the ceiling. "Would it matter?" She dreaded that he was going to substitute one quest for another.

He finally returned her gaze. "I guess not. Love doesn't always make sense."

Her smile trembled. "No, it doesn't."

He answered, "Anyway, you are the only thing that makes sense in this crazy world." His kiss was gentle and soft, not forcing anything, his hands only touching her face, sweet strokes across her tear-stained cheeks. It was Jean who buried her fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth into hers, and flung her leg over his thighs, making sure that he couldn't escape.

His fingers dared to find their own course into her curls, his other hand sliding inside her dressing gown to discover a sliver of exposed skin at her waist when a mouse ran over her bare foot.

With her scream, the kiss was over.

"We can't stay on this floor," she said.

"You should get back into your bed," he said virtuously. "I'll be fine."

"Lucien—"

"I'll be fine," he repeated, carefully pushing her away.

With a sigh, she got back into the bed. The few times before when she thought that he may kiss her, it had been sun-dappled moments, the rich odour of blooms surrounding them. How typical of this tense and stumbling relationship that their first kiss would be on a floor that smelled of mouse droppings. She tugged her dressing gown back into place and straightened the pathetic excuse for a blanket over her. Even with the flush of desire still suffusing her body, she was cold. She tried moving her legs to generate some heat, but the effect had minimal results. She heard Lucien turning to and fro on the floor, probably suffering from the same problem. Then there was the sound of tiny paws scurrying across the bare wood too.

"Lucien—"

"Yes, Jean?"

"Get in this bed."

"Jean—"

"We're two mature adults. We've been married before. We're fully capable of sharing a bed for the night. Now do as I say." When she said it like that, the whole situation sounded normal.

His head popped up out of the darkness and the whites of his eyes glistened. The rain had slackened and was just a gentle lapping of waves on the roof and window.

"Lucien?"

"I'm coming."

She quickly shuffled over to the far side of the narrow bed. His weight caused the springs to groan.

"Thank you, Jean."

"It's the least I can do," she said.

They both lay on their backs, shoulders barely touching, each gripping the edge of the mattress. Wide awake, they listened to the approaching thunder. But at least they were warm. Very warm.

Lucien very carefully shifted his foot; he suddenly had cramp in his shin. Jean shied away. "Pardon," he said quickly.

"It's fine. It's fine," she garbled.

Footfalls went up and down the veranda as the other passengers settled in for the night, calling out goodnight. The hotel finally quietened.

Jean was breathing carefully, trying to simulate sleep. She'd stay awake all night if necessary, just so Lucien could be comfortable.

Then she heard a rhythmic thumping against the wall. At first curious, she cocked her head. Then she realised what it was—Beside her, Lucien started to shake, trying to hold in his laughter.

"Well!" she gasped. "Some people."

"Hotels can have that effect," he whispered, his mouth at her ear. "You know, away from home and all its constraints, in an anonymous room." His chuckles began to shake the whole bed.

She slapped his arm and hissed, "Lucien!"

"I don't think they can hear me—" The squeaking abruptly stopped and Lucien had to slap his palm over his mouth to keep from bursting out with full-blown laughter. He finally rasped, "Poor woman, that was rather quick."

Speechless with outrage, Jean turned onto her side, hoping that her spine gave off her reproach. Although...was her dissatisfaction with his bawdy humour or the fact that a hotel didn't seem to be having any particular effect on him. After all, she'd kissed him, forced him to join her in bed; the ball was in his court now.

Much to her surprise, she began to drift off. It had been a long, emotionally draining day. But every time she started to fall asleep, her body betrayed her. She would snap back awake to find her leg had slid between his knees, or her arm around his middle, draped uncomfortably close to his groin. She pulled her limbs back in quickly, only to wake again and her whole body was snug against his back, her nose buried in the crook of his neck.

She had missed sharing a bed with a man all these years, she decided. The heat, just the cosiness of another body to cuddle. That's all this was. Once more, she rolled over and tucked the blanket tightly to her chin, willing herself to sleep.

She woke. Someone was breathing deeply at her ear. The brush of a beard at the nape of her neck told her who it was. Instead of being horrified, she allowed her body to relax into his, melting back against firm chest and strong arms. He wrapped around her and tears prickled in her eyes at the sensation. She had definitely missed this; waking to a man's need and longing. Fifteen long years…And then the struggle of the last few years, in the presence of a man who was always within a breath's distance, whose large hands settled on a shoulder, an elbow, even the middle of her back, so easily. She could finally give into the urge to just relent…After all, who'd see and know in the darkness but them? No one could hear over the drumbeat of rain on the roof.

His fingertips stroked at the satin covering her belly. She shifted, which lifted the fabric so he found skin. He sighed deeply, grateful.

For Lucien, it was as though some switch had been turned on. He recalled her body heat through her garments from every time he'd touched her, the interplay between firm bone and muscle; a strong woman. When he'd cradled her cheeks, the softness of her skin, fine pores, and face powder. Desire was something which he'd held in check for years and now it was rising over a dam—he was flooded like the road.

Emboldened, he nudged her shoulder and to his great relief, she rolled over and into his embrace. Before he could even act on her acquiescence, she was tugging his singlet off, and when her palms slid across his chest, followed by her mouth, his head swarmed with confusion and delight, not daring to follow her lead. It was she who pulled off her pyjama top.

The darkness and noise of rain cloaked them, not just from what random hotel guest may be strolling the veranda for a late night smoke. They were in a dream, and surely would just wake and shake the memories off with nothing more than a guilty blush.

To palm her breasts, taste them, press his nose between them and breathe so deeply as to make his head go light. Reaching up to kiss her before nuzzling at her skin again. Settling between her legs and sobbing into her mouth when she raised her hips to meet his own, rolling together, the friction of fabric driving them both nearly mad. She was gripping his short hair so tightly as to bring tears to his eyes.

He knew they should stop. "Jean—" he mumbled, trying to move backwards.

Her answer was to slide her hands under the waistband of his pants and grab hold, keeping him tight to her. He really couldn't argue with that.

With the shifting of their legs together, his pants were sliding dangerously low, and her pyjama bottoms were riding down too. Hard sought soft, slickness soaked crisp curls—the doctor in him realised that this was risky and took control. With a great huff, half determination, half agony, he rolled her away from him, and buried his face in her hair, trying to catch his breath.

"Lucien!" she growled.

He shushed her, and pressed open-mouthed kisses across her shoulders. He palmed her breasts before one hand slid over her belly and under the waist of her pyjamas, but she grabbed his wrist and held his fingers away from its goal.

"Let me give you pleasure," he murmured. "I want to make you happy."

She turned over. Brushing his hair down flat with shaking fingers, she blinked tears away. "I...I want the first time to be together. We're in this together, right?"

"Alright," he said slowly.

"We could be very careful," she said, knowing that many a man and woman had believed that, only to fall pregnant.

"I got condoms at the chemist," Lucien said, scrambling from the bed. "Back in a tick."

Suddenly cold like a splash of freezing water, Jean drew her knees up and watched him dig through the paperbag. "You...you bought those things at the chemist? Had you...planned...this?"

He tipped his head with aggravation. "I left a four word note on Charlie's desk so he and Mattie wouldn't worry. I forgot my hat and coat at the station to run after that bloody bus. I had no plan."

Jean blinked.

"The only thing I do know is that I want to make love with you. It doesn't have to happen tonight, or tomorrow, but I'm not some boy asking to court. We're two adults and it's been too damn long for both of us." But he put the box back in the sack. "This old officer couldn't help but be prepared for all possible situations."

She loosened her grip on her knees. "I see."

He curled the top of the paper bag closed.

"Aren't you going to get to it then?" she said, outraged.

He opened his mouth to question her sudden change of tune, but for once decided that silence was the better part of valour. Jean wiggled out of her bottoms and held up the blanket for him, blessedly, beautifully naked. Mustering his dignity, and containing his excitement and shaking nerves, he opened the bag and took out one condom—best not to appear too eager. But instead of joining her, he grabbed the footboard and dragged the bed away from the wall in an impressive display, causing her to squeal. "There, that should be enough clearance," he said with satisfaction.

Her gasp of shock turned to a giggle. He liked that; he didn't hear her laugh often enough. Stripping off his shorts, he rejoined her, but was quickly overwhelmed, trying to do too much at once. Reach for her, wrangle with the condom's packet, somehow got his legs tangled in the sheet, banging his head on the iron bed stand.

"Lucien!"

"I'm fine. I just need to get this one thing done..." He rolled away from her to suit up, so to speak.

"You really don't have to..." she said uncertainly.

He peered over his shoulder. "Is it not necessary?" He wasn't sure if this was the sort of mood-killing discussion that they should be having at the moment.

"Yes, no, I mean, most men don't like to wear them." Her face was flaming red. He knew that probably meant one man. For not the first time, he was immensely curious about her dead husband.

"I don't mind," he said carefully, flipping back over, duty done. "Fact is, it'll help me make a better showing than that chap on the other side of the wall."

She slapped his shoulder. "Lucien!"

"Right here," he said cheerfully, crawling into the welcoming cradle of her thighs.

Her arms draped around his neck, holding him snug to her chest as they kissed. Her legs wrapped around his hips as he surged forward, her heels digging at his thighs, urging him in. They both sighed in unison, then laughed, slightly embarrassed.

The rain pelted down, filling Lucien's head like gunfire. Anywhere she wasn't touching him, his skin peppered in gooseflesh from dread at the sound. Her fingers traced heat across his shoulders, down his back, gripped his flanks. He gathered her in his arms. As long as he clutched her close, nothing could hurt him. And she held him deep within her, so tightly that his eyes watered. That was his girl, stronger than he could ever be.

He'd feared disgracing himself by popping off too quickly, but he managed to measure his thrusts, keeping time with the wind's thump on the windowpanes. He revelled in Jean's lithe body, pliant but strong, how her knees tucked under his armpits—his imagination happily hopped along, wondering just how flexible she could be...Next time...would there be a next time? Best to make a good showing here...

Naturally, as soon as that thought flitted through his mind, a crack of thunder struck directly over the hotel, and terror drove like a knife low in his belly. A flash of lightning lit the room, and in that moment, he saw Jean arching off the mattress in ecstasy. His fear bloomed, bright as the energy in the air, and was transformed to joy. Hail suddenly crashed on the roof, as loud and thunderous as a barrage of bullets, but he was free, free as the day he walked out the prison camp's gates.

Whatever he and Jean were babbling was lost in the hailstorm. Perhaps it was for the best.

He managed to keep from collapsing on her and after catching his breath, disentangled himself. Once on his feet, he reeled a bit, nearly losing his balance on his way to the garbage bin. Major Blake wasn't just out of practice at shooting up the dinner roast, it would seem.

"Lucien?" she called after him.

"Just cleaning up," he said over his shoulder. He cleared his throat. "Would you like a wet cloth? The water is still warm."

"Yes, thank you," she said, sounding relieved.

Once she finished, he wrung the towel out and draped it over the wash basin. This felt more intimate than making love somehow and yet he found himself shifting from foot to foot, uncertain. Should he just curl up back on the floor like a dog?

"Lucien?"

"Yes." His voice squeaked like a boy's.

"Um..."

"Yes?"

"Did you...buy just one of those items?"

It took him a moment to figure out what she meant. "I got a box," he said.

"Good," she said with satisfaction. "Bring it with you then. And get back in here. I'm freezing."

He banged the box down on the table by the bed, dove back under the covers, and wrapped his arms around her. She tucked her head under his chin and he felt suddenly sleepy. It had been a very long, very trying day. Contentment was a great sleeping aid. But there was one thing he had to do before slipping off. "Can I say it now?" he asked drowsily.

"What?"

"What you didn't want me to say on the bus."

She tensed but snuggled closer. "Oh that." She had wanted him to say something, anything for weeks now but when he was ready to do so, she found herself holding him off. But she knew he was relentless. Best to get it over with. "Alright, yes."

"I love you, Jean Beazley."

"You dill."

"Jean—"

In the dark, she traced his mouth with her fingertips and pressed them to his lips to silence him. "I love you too, Lucien Blake. Now go to sleep."

~ end


End file.
